airy farm, to stow away his barrels. Better it is,
however, to climb the stile just past the poor-house gate, and follow the
footpath along the smoothly scooped banks of the Braid Burn to
"Cockmylane" and to Comiston. The wind has been busy all the morning
spreading the snow over a glittering world. The drifts are piled
shoulder-high in the lane as it approaches Comiston, and each old tree
grouped around the historic mansion is outlined in snow so virgin pure
that were the Ghost--"a lady in white, with the most beautiful clear
shoes on her feet"--to step out through the back gate, she would be
invisible, unless, indeed, she were between you and the ivy-draped
dovecot wall. Near by, at the corner of the Dreghorn Woods, is the
Hunters' Tryst, on the roof of which, when it was still a wayside inn,
the Devil was wont to dance on windy nights. In the field through which
you trudge knee-deep in drift rises the "Kay Stane," looking to-day like
a tall monolith of whitest marble. Stevenson was mistaken when he said
that it was from its top a neighbouring laird, on pain of losing his
lands, had to "wind a blast of bugle horn" each time the King

VISITED HIS FOREST OF PENTLAND.

That honour belongs to another on the adjacent farm of Buckstane. The
ancient monument carries you further back, and there are Celtic
authorities that translate its name the "Stone of Victory." The
"Pechtland Hills"--their elder name--were once a refuge for the Picts;
and Caerketton--probably Caer-etin, the giant's strong-hold--is one of
them. Darkly its cliffs frown down upon you, while all else is flashing
white in the winter sunlight. For once, in this last buttress thrown out
into the plain of Lothian towards the royal city, the outer folds of the
Pentlands loses its boldly-rounded curves, and drops an almost sheer
descent of black rock to the little glen below. In a wrinkle of the
foothills Swanston farm and hamlet are snugly tucked away. The spirit
that breathes about it in summer time is gently pastoral. It is
sheltered from the rougher blasts; it is set about with trees and green
hills. It was with this aspect of the place that Stevenson, coming
hither on holiday, was best acquainted. The village green, whereon the
windows of the neat white cottages turn a kindly gaze under low brows of
thatch, is then a perfect place in which to rest, and, watching the smoke
rising and listening to "the leaves ruffling in the breeze," to muse on